


With My Eyes on the Prize and My Mind on You

by gilligankane



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-09
Updated: 2011-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It'll be worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With My Eyes on the Prize and My Mind on You

**Author's Note:**

> Coda to 2x9 "Special Education"

Santana finally finds Brittany out on the field, running her hand across the painted enamel of the cannon. Brittany must see her – and the expression on her face – because she takes her hand away quickly, pushing it into her pocket. She pulls her shoulders together, almost hunching over.  
  
 _Good,_  Santana thinks.  _She should be afraid._  
  
She’s equal parts furious, annoyed and hurt, but only the anger is visible in her eyes and the downward turn of her scowl. When Quinn stormed into the locker room, waving around a signed wavier with Brittany’s impossibly recognizable signature, all rounded corners and one scribbled line at the end, Santana had snatched it away, staring at it in disbelief.  _No, no, she couldn’t, she_  wouldn’t  _have signed it._  
  
Except that she had signed it, giving Coach Sylvester a way out of the liability of shoving a human being into a carnie cannon and shooting her across a football field. Brittany had signed the waiver and Santana had to find out from Quinn, of all people. At first, she’s more angry by  _that_  than she is that Brittany actually agreed to Coach’s half-brained attempt to top herself. There isn’t any reason they can’t just throw their hands up in the air and do some repeat-after-me cheers. The stunts are for the crowd, but the Cheerios have the form and the technique to win with their eyes closed. Coach knows that. Brittany knows that.  
  
Once she swallows the “I-can’t-believe-she-didn’t-tell-me” lump in her throat, she’s pissed at Brittany for agreeing to the idea, for avoiding her since the bathroom, and for not asking her opinion of about this.  
  
She slows down and stops in front of Brittany, crossing her arms over her chest slowly, her head tilted down so can exercise the full effect of her “are-you-fucking-kidding-me” glare. Brittany shifts away from her, staring out towards the 50-yard line. Santana waits, counting the seconds in her head slowly. When she reaches thirty, she clears her throat loudly.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
Brittany shrugs, still looking away. “I’m talking to the cannon.”  
  
Santana pauses, her all-purpose reply – “ _I don’t care what you’re doing, this is what you_  should  _be doing_ ” – forgotten for a moment. “You’re… what?”  
  
“The cannon,” Brittany says slowly. “I’m talking to it.”  
  
“…Why?” Santana glances at the cannon, wondering if there’s a feature added that she doesn’t know about. She doesn’t read German, after all, so she’s not sure exactly what the piece of machinery is capable of, besides decapitating an all-too-realistic replica of Brittany.  
  
Brittany trails her hand along the cannon again. “I’m telling it not to worry.”  
  
Santana steps closer and scoffs. “The  _cannon_  shouldn’t worry.  _You_  should worry. You’re the one Coach wants to pack in there like tobacco and spit out again.”  
  
“If I do, we’ll win.”  
  
“If you do, you’ll die,” Santana hisses. “What don’t you get about that?”  
  
Brittany’s head snaps around so fast her ponytail flickers out towards Santana’s cheek. “You didn’t seem to care before,” she says calmly.  
  
Santana backs down a bit, because Brittany has a point. Quinn was the one who protested the cannon in the first place. Quinn was the one who challenged Coach.  _Quinn_  was the one who picked up the plastic doll head, ash-scarred and singed and promised she would talk to someone about it.  
  
And Santana had just stood there, silent.  
  
“Don’t apologize,” Brittany says as Santana opens her mouth.  
  
“I wasn’t going to,” she snaps back reflexively.  
  
“I know how much winning means to you,” Brittany continues. “It’s okay. We’ll win.”  
  
She wants to tell Brittany that she’s wrong, that winning isn’t everything, but she’d be lying. She wants to win so badly that it clouds her vision and judgment: spying on New Directions, fighting with Wheezy over Puck, sleeping with Finn, getting a boob job to feel good, and not singing a duet with Brittany. Winning is what she loves. It’s what she’s good at. Brittany knows that about her.  
  
Brittany shrugs her shoulder and smiles, a hint of sadness lingering at the edges. “It’s okay,” she says again. “It’s worth it.”  
  
In the bathroom earlier, Quinn had admitted to being torn, unsure if she should choose New Directions or Cheerios. Santana wasn’t. She’ll choose Cheerios over and over again. There are too many things to lose if she chooses glee: a chance at another National title, scholarship offers, her parent’s approval.  
  
It’s just glee. She can sing and dance in her room or her shower. No one claps for her but no one slushies her either. She loves it, it’s the best part of her day, but  _whatever_. Coach Sylvester can open doors and windows and air vents Schuester could never dream of and she’ll always choose Cheerios, except…  
  
Except that she’ll always choose Brittany, over everything and anything.   
  
At least, she used to, before she started picking her way up the social ladder; one rung, one boy, one slushie at a time. The way Brittany is looking at her now sends her crashing back to the bottom.  
  
Her life is like Chutes and Ladders. She’s always climbing so high and falling too far.  
  
“Maybe it’s not worth it,” she thinks she hears herself say.  
  
She must say it out loud because Brittany’s eyes are wide and unblinking. It makes Santana uncomfortable, the way Brittany seems to stare right into her. Uncomfortable, only because it’s been too long since Brittany has looked her straight in the eyes – lately it’s been glances out of the corners of their eyes. Now Brittany is staring at her head-on and Santana resists the urge to look away first. She clenches her fist so tight she feels her fingernails cut into her palms.  
  
“It’s not?” Brittany asks, finally breaking the silence. “We’ll win, though.”  
  
“Winning won’t mean anything if you’re not breathing,” Santana says, her voice thick and cracking. “You have to know that.”  
  
Brittany drops her gaze and her finger traces circles on the cannon until she’s drawing an “S” over and over again. Santana waits for an answer, but Brittany seems so intent on drawing on the medieval torture device that a minute goes by quietly.   
  
“You do know that, don’t you?” Santana finally asks. Brittany just keeps tracing letters and Santana gets fed up, closing the distance between them. She grabs Brittany’s hand and squeezes it lightly. “Britt…”  
  
“Cheerios is important to me too, you know,” Brittany says quietly. “I know how much Quinn wants it and how much you need it, but it’s important to me too.” She shrugs, almost like she’s apologizing. “I love Glee, but winning is a little important to me too.”  
  
Santana squeezes Brittany’s hand tighter until the blonde looks at her. “We can win without using you as packing material. I mean, we won without it last year. And without Quinn too,” she points out, baring her teeth a little.  
  
“But we had Kurt,” Brittany counters.  
  
“Lady Face was just an insurance policy.”  
  
Brittany tilts her head to the side. “So is the cannon.”  
  
Santana shakes her head, unconsciously stroking her thumb across the back of Brittany’s hand. “I don’t want you to do it.”  
  
“Well, I want you to support me. I’m scared,” Brittany admits. “But I can do this for the team. I just need you to support me and I know I can do this.”  
  
Santana thinks it’s unfair of Brittany to throw her own words back at her – she feels like she’s back on the stage at Sectionals, tapping her foot nervously as she rambles at Brittany:  _if I know you think I can do this, then I can do it._  And now Brittany is looking at her hopefully, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, waiting.  
  
“Of course I support you,” she breathes out.  
  
Brittany’s hand moves in hers, their fingers sliding together and interlocking. She gives Santana slow smile. “Then it’ll be worth it.”  
  
\---  
  
Santana and Quinn stand on either side of Brittany as she stares at the cannon sullenly, her eyes wide than usual, her pupils blown with fear.  
  
She wants to run a finger down Brittany’s spine: a learned method to get Brittany to relax. Instead, she shuffles a little closer and presses up against Brittany’s side, digging her elbow gently into Brittany.  
  
“I’m gonna die,” Brittany says miserably.  
  
Santana shrugs a shoulder. “It’ll be worth it,” she says cautiously.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Quinn give her an “ _are you kidding me right now?_ ” look, but she ignores it and focuses on the way Brittany almost starts to smile.  
  
Quinn can support Brittany any way she wants.  
  
Santana will support Brittany the way she needs.


End file.
